


A Fight You Can't Run From

by Marseille



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Dark Anakin Skywalker, Force-Sensitive Padmé Amidala, Old Republic AU, Sith Obi-Wan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:24:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6147613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marseille/pseuds/Marseille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Padmé Amidala is a rebel queen who joins the Sith to gain enough power to help her people.<br/>Anakin Skywalker is a young, promising Sith Lord who plans to destroy the Empire.<br/>Obi-Wan Kenobi is a former Jedi, disillusioned with the Order after the death of his Master.<br/>Sometimes good people are forced to do bad things. Eventual Obi-Wan/Anakin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fight You Can't Run From

**Author's Note:**

> padmé is a rebel queen and takes no one's shit because leia got her tough attitude from somewhere and it sure as hell wasn't anakin "crying half the time" skywalker

The command bunker was in utter chaos. An alarm was blaring, and dozens of voices filled the air; all the people in the room were competing with one another to be heard, and every word was of the utmost importance. The only light in the underground cement room came from terminals and the few red emergency lights in the corners of the ceiling.

“Jacobson, report!” Padmé barked, looking up from her command display. The large holographic map was flickering, and static buzzed violently across it whenever anything was visible. “What's it look like out there?”

“Not good,” announced the dark-haired man as he hastily entered the room. “We seem to be the only bunker Imperial artillery hasn't hit yet.”

“General, we've lost contact with the recon team!” shouted a male Zabrak as Jacobson passed him on the way to the center holoterminal. The display flickered again, then went dark. Padmé swore and slammed her hand down.

“None of them are responding?” she demanded, glaring at her unresponsive machine.

“Not for the past quarter of an hour.”

“Not for the past quarter of an hour, _sir_!” corrected Jacobson. He knelt to open the side panel on Padmé's terminal.

“Can it, Jacobson,” the young general shot. She strode over to the Zabrak and leaned over his console.

“None of them? You're sure?” she asked again, pressing seemingly random buttons in an attempt to turn the red “Link 4” lights back to green.

“We've tried three times to contact each of them —”

“Three times?!” Padmé exclaimed. “Why didn't you tell me sooner? I could have done something!”

“We attempted communication three times, as per your request, sir,” the Zabrak explained quickly.

“As per my request. Huh,” Padmé muttered, then stepped back from the console. She pushed a strand of dark brown hair out of her face. Her hair was braided and pulled into a bun, but she hadn’t fixed it in a few days and the once-regal style had begun to fall apart.

“Padmé, come take a look at this damn thing!” shouted Jacobson. He had nearly his entire head inside the maintenance hatch of the main command holoterminal.

“What do you need _me_ for?” she demanded, walking back over to him. “You fix this thing all the time, I don't know what's so different —”

A massive explosion from above the ceiling shook the whole bunker. The emergency lights flickered, and the center console came to life again.

“Aha!” exclaimed Jacobson, inching out of the maintenance hatch and getting to his feet.

“I'm leaving,” Padmé said finally. Jacobson grabbed her arm.

“Padmé, you can't just go out there!” he insisted quietly. “I'd say you don't know what you're up against, but you know damn well we've lost four bunkers _and_ our only recon team, just in the past few hours!”

“And that's exactly why I'm going.” Padmé pulled her arm from his grasp and headed for the door. Jacobson followed.

“Look, these people depend on you! I can't lead this operation on my own and you know that!”

The noisy chatter quieted down. Several people had stopped working entirely to watch the scene that played out between the general and her second-in-command.

“You're right. They do depend on me. Again, that's why I'm going out there, whether you like it or not,” Padmé said, picking up the rifle she'd left leaning by the door the day before.

“What are you bringing that for?”

“I'm taking out the artillery.”

“You can't 'take out artillery' with a blaster rifle!”

“Yes, but you see, Bran, it has a scope,” she pointed out, opening the command center door and heading for the ladder to the surface.

“A scope?! A scope's not going to help you, Padmé, we need you here! They'll be sending infantry for us within the hour, most likely, and we need to figure out where we're going to put all this stuff! Where we're all going to go!”

“Yeah, I — I don't — a scope will definitely help, Bran.”

Jacobson shook his head in dismay. “You know that's not what I'm talking about.”

“Then what _are_ you talking about?”

He sighed. “Just go. You're not going to listen to me, you can't even be serious right now. You're just too excited to get out of this hole and get yourself killed. Go, we'll monitor you as best we can from here.”

Padmé grinned. “There, see? This is why I keep you around.”

Jacobson laughed grimly. “If you’re not back in thirty minutes, I'll assume you're dead. We're leaving with or without you.”

“I'll make it in twenty,” she called, climbing up the ladder.

“Don't get cocky.”

“I'll see if I can do it in fifteen, how's that?”

“Just _go_ already!”

* * *

 

Her thirty minute deadline had nearly been spent by the time Padmé arrived near the source of the artillery strikes. They had stopped recently, giving her time to quickly and safely make her way closer, but even so her journey had taken far too long. She wouldn’t have the chance to gloat about her efficiency when she got back. _If_ she got back — the eerie silence signaled a possible infantry assault.

The once-grassy surface of the planet had been reduced to dirt and rubble over the course of the Imperial campaign. There was little foliage to speak of, but large brown rocks offered plenty of cover if needed.

Crouching by one of the rocks, Padmé scanned the far-off Imperial fortress for any sign of her targets. Several guards by the entrance, a few snipers and lookouts in towers. Up on the cliffs to the right there was an encampment. She couldn't get a good look at the soldiers from where she hid, but there was no other place she could imagine the Imperials could safely set up their small amount of artillery.

There was no way she could hit anyone from her current position. If Padmé wanted any hope of taking out an important soldier — she had her hopes on a sergeant or maybe even a lieutenant — she would need a better vantage point, closer to the cliffs.

“Nothing here, sir!” called a voice in the distance.

Padmé scrambled behind the rock, clutching her rifle to her chest. It was an advance patrol, most likely, come to clear the way before the main assault. If she wanted to manage anything, she would have to get it done now.

Poking her head around the rock, she watched the four Imperial soldiers walk behind a massive stone. Taking care not to make too much noise, Padmé climbed to the top of her rock and knelt. She jammed the butt of her rifle against her shoulder and scanned the far-off encampment through her scope. There were several soldiers and a small artillery turret, but all were still too far off to hit, let alone to determine a valuable target.

Padmé closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm herself. She needed to clear her mind so she could figure a plan of action. The cold air seemed to fill her chest with a strange warmth and a sense of determination, spreading up the back of her neck to her head and down her arms. In her mind’s eye, she could practically see the three soldiers, preparing for a new attack. She heard her mind scream, _this is your only chance!_ Another deep breath.

She squeezed the trigger.

Padmé opened her eyes to the sound of a massive explosion. Her single shot couldn’t have caused such destruction; perhaps the artillery crew was thrown off by the sudden attack and made a mistake.

The patrol to her left certainly heard her blaster, and Padmé dove off the rock. Her plan had been to take out a few targets, then make her way back. She had destroyed the artillery crew and their weaponry, but if she were captured and brought inside the fortress, she would have a chance at killing high-ranking officers… if she could convince the Imperials to keep her alive, the resistance would have time to assemble a strike team to break her out.

Crouching with her back against the cold stone, Padmé frantically tried to contact Jacobson on her communicator. It had been far longer than thirty minutes now, meaning the resistance comm channels were probably abandoned. It would be ideal if he knew her change in plans, so she tried again to reach him, this time on his personal holocommunicator frequency. There was no response.

“Drop your weapon!” ordered an Imperial soldier, suddenly shoving his blaster in Padmé’s face. “Sir, we’ve got one!”

Careful not to make any sudden movements, the young general placed her rifle on the ground, then held her hands above her head. _Breathe. Don’t do anything stupid._

“Restrain her, Corporal,” another Imperial ordered, rushing over. He was an officer.

“Sir, do we know what that explosion was from?” asked the third soldier as he approached, weapon drawn. Padmé was about to grin and take credit for it when the corporal pulled her arms behind her back and clamped metal restraints over her wrists.

“We’ve got three casualties, Sergeant, but no one knows what happened. Berith is investigating,” the officer informed.

“Should I take her back, Lieutenant?” asked the corporal. He was young and anxious, his voice shaking slightly.

The officer shook his head. “No, I want you here with me. Almen, take her back. Throw her in a detainment cell and inform Intelligence.”

“Yes, sir,” came the corporal’s nervous reply. He seemed relieved to let go of the young general.

“Come on,” grunted Sergeant Almen, grabbing Padmé’s upper arm and yanking her forward. He was much taller than her, so she had to run in order to keep her footing.

On the way to the fortress, Padmé stumbled several times. “Would you quit it? I’m not uncooperative, I’m just short!” she protested. The closer they got to the stronghold, the more an unfamiliar, foreign sense of dread seemed to worm its way into her chest.

The sergeant said nothing for a long time but slowed down a bit as they finally entered the fortress. After passing the massive metal walls, he pulled Padmé up to stand at her full height, holding her arm slightly higher than what would be comfortable. It strained her shoulder.

Inside the protective walls, chaos reigned. Soldiers were rushing everywhere, a group of bounty hunters were sparring in hand-to-hand combat, and a team of medics were sprinting to the right, where a crowd had gathered by the metal stairs that led to the artillery encampment.

Padmé only noticed she’d been staring when Almen pulled her forward violently.

“Admiring your handiwork?” he growled, tightening his death-grip on her arm.

They continued down the dirt road that bisected the fortress setup. Personnel on either side of the duo stopped and stared.

“Back to your posts!” shouted someone from behind them. The sergeant turned to look, pulling Padmé around his body in a circle. She stumbled.

“Sergeant Almen, just the soldier I was looking for,” said the man before them. He wore red robes, which flowed gracefully despite the weight of the fabric. A golden circlet rested on his head, where his dark blonde hair was combed neatly back and parted on the side.

“My Lord,” the sergeant greeted. “I’m bringing this prisoner to a detainment cell, as per Lieutenant Danel’s orders.”

“Those orders have changed, Sergeant,” the superior informed. Almen seemed almost as unnerved as his prisoner to be around the red-robed man, who motioned inside the building to his left.

“Come.”

Sergeant Almen led Padmé inside. The interior of the building was fashioned as an office of sorts; dark metal paneling covered the walls, contrasting nicely with the crimson glow of many monitors lined there. A massive grey desk faced the door, and the man in red stood behind it, observing the soldier and his prisoner as they approached. He waved his hand in a small, casual flourish, and the metal restraints tightly binding Padmé’s wrists snapped open and fell to the floor with a loud clang. Almen stepped back in surprise, releasing the rebel general.

“Thank you for your time, Sergeant. You may leave us,” announced the imposing Lord. Despite his polite tone, he was not making any semblance of a request.

“Yes, my Lord,” Almen replied smoothly, saluting. Right before he turned on his heel and left unusually quickly, Padmé felt his body practically explode with relief. This unnerved her; if there was something about the crimson-robed Lord that struck fear into the heart of such a tough Imperial soldier, there was certainly something to be worried about.

The man before her smiled politely, but the expression was only a façade. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, less regal and obviously less comfortable than his own.

“Please, sit,” he offered civilly. Suspicious and tense, Padmé sat down slowly. She kept her gaze locked with the man’s the entire time as he, too, sat down across from her, lacing his fingers together before him on the desk.

“General,” he began, “I must say, I do wish we had met under different circumstances. Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner. I am Lord Berith.”

“Pleasure,” Padmé muttered.

“I understand your desire to kill me, General, though I would advise against trying. You would not fare well against a Sith Lord.”

 _Sith…_ That would explain the overwhelming dread that had finally culminated here, before Lord Berith. She had dealt with fear before and was certainly no stranger to a racing heart, but still, part of her insisted that she fall to her knees and beg for mercy. Padmé fought the urge and spoke.

“What did you bring me here for?” she demanded. “You could easily have thrown me into a detention cell to rot.”

“We may just do that, General,” Lord Berith mused, a slight smile on his face. “But for now, allow me to explain. Do relax, I don’t intend to harm you.”

“Not yet, at least, I assume,” Padmé said. She was clearly unamused by the Sith’s attempt at lightening the situation, which had only managed to grate against her nerves.

“When I heard of your quick work with our artillery crew, I knew that we were no longer dealing with a rag-tag group of rebels.”

“Really, now?” the young woman asked sarcastically. “You know, I forgot to mention, we’re actually an ancient race of droids come to destroy the Empire.”

Berith grinned humorlessly.

“No,” he replied, “but an ancient foe nonetheless. You have strong ties to the Republic, yes?”

Padmé scoffed. “You mean the people who left my people high and dry to contend with you on our own? I’d sooner kiss a Hutt than pledge loyalty to those betraying fools again.”

The man eyed her closely. The queen-turned-rebel-general no longer radiated fear, but anger. Berith sensed a mélange of disgust, a fresh sense of betrayal, and unrestrained loathing rolling off of the woman in waves, but he could not decipher which were directed at him.

“You are an interesting one, General. Tell me, how long have you been away from your Order? You seem to have forgotten your self-restraint.”

Padmé looked at him in confusion.

“Your Jedi Order,” he clarified. “When did they send you here?”

The young rebel laughed. “A Jedi? That’s rich. If I were a Jedi, I would have been able to cut you down where you stand. You and all your friends would be dead by now, and I would be back with my people.”

“Speaking of your friends,” Berith cut her off, “I have been meaning to offer you a decision: your life for your friends’.”

“You’re bluffing,” Padmé declared.

The Sith smiled, though the expression did not reach his eyes as he spoke: “Allow me to explain. We know the location of your little group; or rather, what is left of it. Our soldiers are preparing to march on the position with orders to kill anyone they find. We have also captured a good friend of yours, if I am correct.”

“I don’t have friends.”

“Jacobson, I believe his name is. Does that sound familiar, General?” he mused, his voice light and condescending and _disgusting_. Padmé held back an expression of disgust and stared at the man in front of her.

“Would you like to see him? Perhaps that will jog your memory,” he suggested as he turned on a holodevice on his desk. An image flickered to life, showing a man cowering in the corner of a detention cell. His left arm looked bloody and mangled, and he cradled it against his chest.

“No…” Padmé whispered, eyes wide.

“He’s quite the fighter, Jacobson,” Berith noted calmly. “Resisted our best interrogations for nearly an hour, now.”

“Take me. I know what you do to your prisoners, and he doesn’t deserve that. Let him go.”

She stood and offered her wrists, steely determination plastered across her face. The sides of the Sith’s mouth twitched upwards into a small smile, and he walked around the desk to stand at her side.

A wave of nausea suddenly washed over Padmé, and she would have fallen to her knees, but… she was frozen in place. Her eyes widened in fear as the man beside her leaned over to speak in her ear.

“A wise decision,” he whispered threateningly, then stepped back and held down a button on the device on his desk.

“Guards,” he ordered, “take the prisoner outside and execute him.”

“No!” Padmé begged, trying in vain to lash out at her captor. “You can’t —”

“You wish your friend to be spared?” he interrupted. “Then tell me exactly _who is sponsoring this rebellion_.”

“I run it, I run the entire operation,” she insisted. “There’s no ties to the Republic, I swear to you!”

“Then it comes as a surprise to you that your friend was a member of the Strategic Information Service, I assume.”

“No, Bran would never…”

“I can and will spare him, General, I am not entirely unreasonable. Just tell me what you know,” the Sith demanded.

“I don’t know anything. I didn’t know any of this. I have nothing to say.”

A blaster went off outside. Padmé cringed and shut her eyes.

“My condolences, General,” Berith said in an attempt to be gentle. “If it is any consolation, if you truly knew nothing of his true affiliation, then there was nothing you could have done to prevent his death. You should not hold yourself accountable. Now, to deal with _you_ , General.”


End file.
